Straight Hair
by Mi-chan17
Summary: Kitty Pryde on Jews, mutants, and life. With an extended cameo by Scott.


AN: I want to give a couple of warnings. First, this is in no way intended to infringe upon any person's religious beliefs. Kitty is giving an account of the world as is seen through the eyes of a Jewish teenaged girl. Her thoughts aren't always politically correct – she's human. Second, I am in no way trying to stereotype Jews. I'm Jewish, there would be no point.

This story came about when I read one too many fanfics that had Rogue going home with Kitty for Christmas. Guys, Kitty's Jewish, it wouldn't be a great Christmas for Rogue.

Disclaimer: I only own the X-Men in my sickest fantasies.

Straight Hair

I hate the smell of burning hair. But, I guess discomfort is the price one pays for duty. In this particular instance, straightening my hair. The heat, from the panels, makes my hair do that acrid burning thing. I only have to put up with the smell every other day or, as is the case this time, when there's a special occasion.

Tonight is the Christmas party, aka the reason I'm singeing my scalp. It's also the reason I called my parents today. Christmas is always a time for introspection, for Jews as much as anyone else. During Christmas time I call my parents, and grandparents, as a way of maintaining my identity.

Hi, I'm Kitty Pryde, and I'm a Jew.

It doesn't seem like a big deal. I mean, in an age of mutant persecution, shouldn't I be more concerned with the fact that I can walk through walls than I am with the fact I say the Shema on holidays? Theoretically. But, in reality, I live in an entire house full of mutants. My roommate, most of my friends, my mentors…all mutants. But here, where no one is supposed to feel alone, I am the only Jew. And I feel it acutely.

Judaism is as much as culture as it is a religion. It's almost like being born into a club. A very exclusive club. I mean, there are just things that only other Jewish kids can understand. Things like the friendships you made at Ramah, or Newman, or Swig – all of which you refer to as Jew-camp. They understand when you complain about Mrs. Goldstein, your fifth grade Hebrew teacher, who spent all year kvetching about how you pronounced the letter "chet" ("don't pronounce it like 'ket', but don't sound like a Baptist trying to properly pronounced 'Chanukah'."). When your grandmother has a bad day and is acting depressed, you don't need to explain that she's a holocaust survivor. Your Jewish friends commiserate with you on Yom Kippur. They help you cook a Seder meal. They remember which tree you planted on mitzvah day.

Here, at the mansion, if I say something in Yiddish, I get the "what the heck is wrong with you?" look. During holidays, my holidays, I get some weird looks too. I'll be setting up a Hannukiah and Jean will raise an eyebrow in question. I'll be fasting on Yom Kippur and Kurt will beg me to eat. It makes me want to scream. I'm serious. Do I look anorexic to you? I can't talk about my religion either. At least, not with any regularity. My best friend is, despite the fact he's from the home Protestantism, Catholic. My roommate is from the Bible belt.

It wouldn't be such a problem if I weren't in my confirmation year. If I still lived at home, this is the year I would be studying, in depth, my faith and confirming my belief in it. I want so badly to do that. I want to know more about who I am, and where I came from. Instead I'm here, straightening my hair for a party for a holiday that I don't celebrate.

Someone's knocking at the door. "Just, like, a sec," I call out.

"Kitty, it's me. Can I come in?"

It's Scott. Oddly, during the holidays, his is the presence that bothers me least. He isn't like Kurt, constantly making weird jokes and asking random, pointless questions. He won't preach to me, like Rogue would (it's always the Baptists). And, unlike Jean, he won't pretend he understands. Actually, as far as I can tell, he isn't any religion at all. Though that could be, in reality, just because I don't know him that well.

I turn off the hair straightener and brush my hair out before opening the door. Scott's standing there already dressed for the party in a dark red button-down and some black slacks. "Like, what's up?" I ask casually, taking a seat on the edge of my bed. I sound innocent, but I know exactly why he's here. Earlier, see, I lost my temper with Kurt. Just, y'know, a little.

"Kurt told me you flipped on him," Scott replies, sitting on my desk chair and shrugging. "Professor X thought it'd be best if I came up. So…what's up?"

I close my eyes for a moment. What was up? Why had I yelled at Blue Boy? Ah, yes…

"I don't want to, like, taste test, like, his stupid 'special Christmas ham', that's all," I reply. It's mostly true. All my tiredness about Christmas and my anger at feeling alone and no one caring kind of culminated in my anti-ham explosion. Well…at least my Christmas issues combined with the fact that I've told Kurt at least three million times that I don't eat pork. It's not kosher.

Scott obviously doesn't buy the idea of it just being the ham. He may be a bit aloof, but he's far from stupid. "I'm sure," is all he says in response to ham story. I think he almost sounds….sarcastic? "But even I've noticed you've been tense." He did! I hardly ever talk to Scott. How the heck could he tell!

"Really?" It shoots out of my mouth with little to no thought. I stare stupidly as Scott begins to laugh.

"I do have glasses," he manages to say, "but I'm not blind." I feel my face flush slightly. "Even I notice stuff sometimes," he continues, still chuckling. My blush increases. Scott continues to shake his head for a few seconds before returning to the somber Scott that I'm used to. Where did this sense of humor come from anyway? He's Captain Tightass. He's not supposed to have a sense of humor.

"Y'know," he says, "I was watching you with Jean…"

"Actually," I interrupt, "you were staring at Jean and I just happened to be there."

"And I noticed you making 'the face'," he finishes, ignoring my input.

"The face?" I repeat, confused.

"Yeah," he smiles, a half-smile that I've seen whole. "The God-Jean-You-Don't-Get-It-Stop-Saying-You-Do face. It's only recognizable by people who've made it before." I'm staring at him, again, in shock. Him? Mr. Whipped himself gets sick of Jean?

I can't help myself as I all but snort, "You? I have, like, serious trouble believing that you get annoyed with Jean."

In response, Scott just shrugs and says, "Jean always means well. She really is just trying to help. It's just, I guess, that it's difficult, dangerous, with a power like hers. She might intellectually get it, because she read it out of your mind, but she's never felt it."

We stare at each other for a few moments. Finally, sick of the silence, I ask, "So, like, why'd they send you?" This is, as my Opa would say (it's a Yiddish term of endearment, one that gets me odd looks from Rogue), the million-dollar question. Usually, if the professor thinks I'm upset, he comes up or he sends Storm or Jean. So what's Scott doing here?

"Well, I guess," Scott replies thoughtfully, "it's because I don't really like Christmas. It's probably my least favorite holiday. If you busted out with an anti-Christmas rant, you wouldn't offend me." I'm blinking. I don't get it. I have a reason to have a love-hate relationship with Jesus' birthday. What possible reason could Scott have to dislike it? I know it's Jean's favorite holiday, too. And, to be honest, I always kind of place them together.

"Why?" I ask. "Aren't you Christian? Why don't you like Christmas?" Scott shifts a little. Now he looks kind of uncomfortable. I've never seen Scott uncomfortable before. He's always the leader, a little cold sometimes, but always confident and sure. He seems to get over it rather quickly though.

"Technically," he answers with a little Scott-smile, "I'm the world's most lapsed Catholic. Irish-Catholic." I blink. Scott always struck me more as an Episcopalian. "But," he continues, "even though I was baptized and went to mass as a kid and all, I don't really believe in God. Besides, Jesus was born in spring anyway." I can't help it as I smile.

Scott is standing up. "Look," he tells me, "when it comes to Christmas, I'm right there with you. It's just not the same kind of thing if you feel alone, right?" I nod. "But, look at the bright side. Everyone acts like better people, at least for a few months. And it makes everyone else happy. It's always nice to see my friends and happy and, when you don't stir up trouble," I blush, "to see everyone getting along."

Scott pulls my door open. "When does Hanukah end?" He asks. I'm able to appreciate the fact that he doesn't pretend to be able to say it right, and that he recognizes it's still going on. Usually, after the first day or so, people forget.

"Monday," I reply.

Scott nods. "Chag Sameach. And you missed a spot." He indicates a section of hair right at the front that, in my hurry to open the door, I apparently forgot.

"Thanks," and I truly mean it.

Scott flashes me that weird little half-smile and leaves. The realization hits me, as he goes, that he never told me why, really, he dislikes Christmas. I grab my hair straightener and prepare to melt the last section into submission. My stereotypical dark, wavy/curly, Jewish hair won't lie flat without it. I stare from my hair down to the straightening tool. You know….I don't really need to do that section. It's in the front anyway – it's a stylistic choice.

Besides, I just because I'm Kitty Pryde going to a Christmas party doesn't mean that I have to hide myself under a mask, or straight hair. I, like Scott, rather than pretending to enjoy the season, can just go to enjoy my friends.

And I can still be Sarah Rivka bat Yechetskal v' Rachel.

AN: That name, at the end, is the name I chose to give Kitty. All Jewish babies are "named" – ie they receive a Hebrew name.

Feedback is greeted with excited squeals.


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